He hung up the phone and blew out a breath. “Ares, the company Marcus claimed to work for? It exists. But they have no record of a Marcus Talbor ever being employed there.”
My blood went cold. “What?”
“The HR person I spoke to checked their system twice. There is no Marcus Talbor. No employee matched his description on those dates. Nothing.”
“Then who the hell did our HR talk to when they verified his references?”
“I’m guessing someone pretending to be from that company,” Neville said grimly. “Professional identity fabrication. The operation requires resources, planning, and technical skill.”
“Tradecraft.”
“Yeah.”
That had to be it. The way he assessed exits when he entered a room, the professional quality of his harassment.
“He’s not just some horny employee. He’s trained. But who? The world of mercenaries is filled with ex-operatives as guns-for-hire.” I leaned over Neville’s shoulder as files populated his screen. “His employment application. Who verified his references?”
I pulled up Marcus’s personnel file. Clean record before he reached us. Decent performance reviews. There was nothing on paper that suggested he was a saboteur.
But I’d learned long ago that paper lied.
“Show me his digital footprint. Social media, online presence, everything.”
More typing. Then Neville’s expression shifted from concerned to alarmed.
“His social media accounts—they’re all created within six months of his application here. He has no prior history. The photos are generic, locations are vague, and connections are minimal. This isn’t a real person’s online life. Marcus Talbor is a manufactured identity.”
“He’s an intelligence operative.” The pieces clicked together with sickening clarity. “Working for someone, but who’d go this far?”
Neville pulled up more files. “Look at this—I’ve been tracking the security breaches. The incidents include duplicated camera feeds, manipulated key card access, and a microwave fire in Tashi’s room. Every single incident traces back to someone with a spy’s level of access and technical knowledge.”
“He’s been sabotaging us from the inside.”
“Since the day he was hired.” Neville’s face paled. “Which means whoever hired him knew exactly what they were doing. Their choice wasn’t opportunistic. It was planned.”
I turned the conversation with Pryce over in my mind. “He’s not trying to win the lawsuit. He’s trying to destroy us before the hearing.”
“And if he can’t do it legally, what’s his backup plan?”
The question hung in the air like a threat.
“Where is he now?” I asked.
Neville checked the security feeds. “Left through the south service entrance ten minutes ago. Hasn’t come back.”
“Track him. I want to know where he goes, who he meets with, what he’s planning.”
“I can try, but if he’s as good as I think he is?—”
“Do it anyway.” I headed toward the door. “And pull every piece of footage we have of him. I want behavioral analysis, movement patterns, anything that tells us who he really is.”
“Where are you going?”
“To have a conversation with someone who might know more than they’re saying.”
Ten minutes later, I was standing outside Henri Saltz’s temporary office—the one he’d commandeered after the board meeting.
I didn’t knock.
